


Centerpiece

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Sunrise [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captivity, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Orgasm, Heavy Angst, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt No Comfort, Leashes, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Clint Barton, Shibari, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Clint seriously considers biting him, but the moment Rollins’ thumb slips into his mouth, a little haze slips over his mind. It’s like a switch is flipped in his head, that low level of arousal suddenly more relevant, pushed to the front of his mind. He shivers, forcibly stopping himself from sucking on Rollins’ thumb.You don’t want this. You’ve never wanted this.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Sunrise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099718
Comments: 18
Kudos: 64





	Centerpiece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/gifts).



> What it says on the tin, my friends. Mind the tags. (if i missed something, please let me know). This takes place in the Sunrise universe, but there's no specific time it slots into. 
> 
> For clintscoffeepot. Thank you for your encouragement and love for Sunrise (and all the others, let's be real). This one's for you. <3

“Rollins is coming over tonight.”

Clint is sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of paperwork. At the words, though, he looks up, twisting around to see Rumlow’s desk. “Huh?”

“Rollins is coming over tonight,” Rumlow repeats.

Clint looks at him for a moment, then says, “What for?”

“Got some strategizing to do.” He leans over his desk, looking for all the world like a king surveying his conquered land. Which, Clint supposes, isn’t too far off the mark. “You gonna behave yourself?”

“What exactly do you think I’m gonna do?” Clint asks, turning to face him more, setting aside the papers in his hand.

“I don’t know,” Rumlow says. “But you have a habit of pulling stupid stunts, and I don’t want to deal with it tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint mutters, looking down at the mess of papers around him. “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist. You let me take this home, I’ll even be productive for you, isn’t that just fucking nice of me.”

Rumlow snorts. “You’re in a mood.”

“I’m tired,” Clint says. “Sue me.” He reaches for another report. “That all?”

“I’m out of coffee.”

“Go get some.”

“That’s what I keep you for.”

“I thought it was for my roguish good looks and charm.”

Rumlow sighs and taps his phone. “Barton. Go get coffee.” The warning is there, unsaid but implied, and Clint grits his teeth. _It’s not worth it,_ he tells himself, slowly getting to his feet. _It’s just coffee._

“You want anything in it?” he asks, and Rumlow shakes his head, typing something on his computer. Clint picks up his mug from the desk and turns to go.

“You have five minutes,” Rumlow says.

“The coffeemaker alone takes five,” Clint says, “and it’s two minutes there and back.”

“Your point?”

“That maybe if I’m _not_ back in five minutes, assume I’m trying to do what you fucking sent me to do, and have some goddamn patience?”

Rumlow’s hands pause, and he slowly, _slowly_ raises his eyes to Clint’s face. A chill races down Clint’s spine, and—not for the first time, not even for the first time today—he wishes he’d fucking think before opening his mouth. But all that happens is Rumlow says, “Tone down the attitude,” and goes back to to typing. And that—

Well, that’s worse, actually. Clint’s played this game long enough to know when Rumlow’s actually ignoring him versus when he’s planning a punishment for later. This is very much the latter category. There’s a cold twist to his mouth, a cruel set to his jaw that only shows up when he’s got a nasty idea in mind—

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, the words sliding out of him. He hates how easily they come to him now, but he doesn’t know what else to say. It works, sometimes, if he can play contrite enough. If he can appeal to Rumlow’s sadistic side enough. If all the stars align and he’s lucky enough.

Rumlow doesn’t look at him. “Coffee,” he says, and Clint goes without another word. He walks fast—not quite running, but damn close—and breathes a sigh of relief when there’s no one else in the break room. There must’ve been at one point, though, because there’s a open container of muffins on the table, dated today.

Clint sneaks himself one. They’re crappy mass-produced things, but it’s the first thing he’s eaten today, and it tastes so damn good he could cry. He has two more by the time the coffee is done brewing, and he grabs a fourth to take back to Rumlow. Peace offering or bribery, he’s not sure which. Clint’s been kind of an asshole to him today, really, mouthing off and—

“Oh my god,” he says, frozen midway in reaching for the coffee. “Get your fucking head on straight, Barton. The man is _literally_ holding you captive.”

He shakes himself, annoyed, and grabs the coffee. He takes a swig of it for himself—it burns his mouth, but he doesn’t care—and wipes the rim of the mug off before taking it and the muffin back down the hallway, half-expecting to be shocked at any point.

But the jolt never comes, and he nudges open the door to Rumlow’s office to see another agent standing at the desk. She’s insanely tall, with dark hair and whipcord tough muscles that he can see from here. They both turn and look at him as the door opens, and Clint pauses, a little unsure what to do.

“They had muffins,” he says after a moment, coming over to Rumlow’s desk and setting both items down. “Um. I brought you one.”

“Aw, tiger,” Rumlow says, faux-sweet. “That was nice of you.”

Clint shrugs, glancing at the woman. “Who’s your friend?”

“Leaving,” the woman says, and turns to go. “Remember to mix it with something warm,” she calls over her shoulder, and then she’s gone, the door swinging closed behind her.

Clint looks at Rumlow. “What was that about?”

“Just a little something. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” He gestures to the floor. “Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

Quietly annoyed, Clint sinks back to the floor, picking up a stack of papers. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a little sense of dread settling in his bones. Whatever’s coming next, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it.

A few hours later, Rumlow pushes back from the desk and stretches. “Alright,” he says, and Clint looks up. “Get up. We’re going.”

Clint gestures at the paper around him. “Do you want me to bring this?”

“Nope. Got other plans for you tonight.”

“That’s ominous,” Clint mutters, but he slowly gets to his feet, giving his body time to adjust. “Can we take a rain check? Pencil them in for a week after no thank you, not ever?”

Rumlow snorts. “Still in a mood, I see.” He points at the door. “That’s alright. You’ll have plenty of chances to be good for me later.”

Clint hesitates, not liking the sound of that at all. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not,” Rumlow says, grabbing his arm, and dragging him out into the corridor.

The ride home is silent, other than the radio playing quietly. It’s country music, which Clint is kind of amused that Rumlow likes, but he knows better than to comment on it. He’s too nervous about what’s coming, anyway, and doesn’t really want to make things worse for himself by pissing him off more.

In the apartment, Rumlow shoves Clint towards the counter. “Sit, tiger.”

“Bathroom,” Clint says, stumbling forward. He doesn’t bother waiting for permission, just goes. Surprisingly, Rumlow doesn’t call after him. Clint’s sure he’s just adding to the tally of infractions, but if he has to be be miserable tonight, he’s not going to do it with a full bladder.

He takes his time, just to have a few extra minutes to himself. But when he comes back out, Rumlow still doesn’t say anything. He just gestures at the counter, where there’s a mug of something waiting.

“Tea,” Rumlow says before he can ask. “Drink it.”

“Uh-huh,” Clint says, sitting at the counter. “Tea, and what else?”

“Who says there’s anything else in there?”

Lots of things. Mostly the smarmy little smile on his face. But Clint doesn’t say that, he just raises an eyebrow and waits. Rumlow’s a bastard, but he’s usually a predictable one. He likes to rub things in. Most of the time, all Clint has to do is wait him out, and he’ll cave.

Sure enough, Rumlow grins widely. “Alright. Tea and something the labs whipped up.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint shoves it back at him. “You drink it, then.”

“Barton.”

“Rumlow.”

They stare each other down for a moment. Finally, Rumlow relents a little and says, “Just something to help you relax, Barton. That’s all. Make things a little easier for you.” There’s a leering look in his eye as he says it, and Clint looks down at the mug, clues finally clicking into place.

“Aphrodisiac,” he guesses, and the look he gets in response is all he needs to confirm it. “I don’t want it.”

“I don’t care.” Rumlow taps the mug. “Drink it.”

“No.”

“You and I both know how this is going to end, Barton. Why do you insist on making things difficult?”

“Part of my charm?”

Rumlow sighs. “Alright. Let me make this easy for you.” He taps the mug again. “You can drink it now, and it’ll be just me and Rollins. Or tomorrow I’ll have them _inject_ you with it, and then I’ll toss you downstairs.”

Clint shudders at the threat. He can’t help it. Can’t hide it, either, and Rumlow grins broadly.

“That what you’re angling for?” he asks. “I’ll dose you with the whole damn thing. The woman who brought it up? She told me the injectable dose is almost twenty-four hours, and it’s a hell of a lot stronger than this one. You’ll be down there every minute of it.” He leans forward, eyes bright with delighted malice. “You’ll ask for it. You’ll _beg_ for it.”

Clint shakes his head. “Please don’t,” he says—whispers, almost. “I don’t—please, no.”

“Then drink it,” Rumlow says, and shoves the mug of tea at him. “You have ten seconds to decide.”

He stares into the depths of the mug, a sick feeling in his stomach. “Is it…” he starts, then trails off.

“Is it what?”

“Will it do that?” Clint looks at him. “Make me want it?”

“It might,” Rumlow says, unconcerned. “You’re not going to come crawling and begging, if that’s what you’re concerned about. But you’ll want to be touched. You’ll need it.” He flashes a cold smile. “You’ll be aware of it. You’ll have some control. More than you would with the other version.”

“That’s reassuring,” Clint mutters. “What happens if I just throw this at your head?”

Rumlow laughs. “Come on, Barton. You know what happens. You need me to spell it out?”

No. He doesn’t.

He curls his hand around the mug, then lifts it to his lips and drinks. It tastes good, which honestly just feels like another betrayal. He’s willingly drugging himself, shouldn’t it at least taste like shit?

But it doesn’t, and he finishes the mug after a minute, shoving it over towards Rumlow with enough ferocity to send it skittering to the floor. It shatters, of course, and Rumlow sighs. “Clean it up.”

“Left my maid’s outfit at home,” Clint mutters, but he gets up, moving around the counter. It’s not until he’s cleaning up the last of the shattered pieces that he starts to feel hot, his skin prickling with sweat. He swears quietly and pulls at his shirt—actually Rumlow’s shirt, he thinks—and yanks it over his head, suddenly feeling like he’s on fire.

Rumlow’s watching him like a hawk, and he grins. “Starting already? That was fast. Rollins won’t be here for another twenty minutes or so.”

Clint throws the shirt at his face and gets to his feet, dumping the rest of the pieces in the trash. “Go fuck yourself.”

“That’s what you’re for,” Rumlow says. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Feel like I want to kill you.”

“So, baseline?” Clint flips him off. “Give me an honest answer, Barton.”

“Feel like shit,” Clint says. “Like I drank about a billion cups of coffee. I’m hot, my heart’s going a million miles an hour. I’m probably going to explode.”

“You’re not going to explode. Give it ten minutes.” He tugs Clint back over to one of the barstools, pushing him onto it, and shoves a glass of water in his hand. “Sit. Drink this.”

“Drug this too?” Clint asks, but he’s already chugging it.

Rumlow snorts. “Guess it wouldn’t matter if I did, now, would it?”

“Fuck off.” Clint slumps sideways, pressing his face against the cool marble tile. “When does this wear off?”

“I didn’t give you that much. Should only be a couple hours.” He pats Clint’s head. “More water?”

Clint nods wordlessly. Rumlow fills the glass at the sink—probably not drugged, then—and passes it over to him. Clint chugs it, then puts his head back against the counter. “You said ten minutes?”

“Yeah. Give your body time to calibrate.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It won’t feel so bad in ten minutes.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s what they told me.” Rumlow cards his fingers through Clint’s hair, and it would be soothing if his skin wasn’t crawling with fire ants. “Deep breaths.”

Surprisingly, though, it does feel better after about ten minutes. The urge to claw his own skin off fades, and now he’s just caught in a low level of arousal, like he’s sinking into a warm pool. He’s turned on, half-hard in his pants, but there’s not really any urgency to it.

Yet, anyway. He suspects that after some time like this, Rumlow’s prediction will come true, and he’ll want it, to some extent. He also suspects that he’s not going to be allowed to do anything about it himself.

Sure enough, Rumlow comes out of the bedroom with a pile of ropes in his arms. “Clothes off,” he says, dropping them on the coffee table.

Clint picks his head up. “What?”

“Clothes off. Come over here.”

“No.”

It’s useless to protest—more of a formality, at this point—and they both know it. Rumlow waits him out, eyebrows raised, and after a moment Clint sighs and gets up. He’s already in this, and he doesn’t feel like playing the game. There’s at least a tiny semblance of dignity in him putting himself on the floor.

“Good boy,” Rumlow says as Clint slowly walks over. “And kill the attitude. You’re already in trouble."

“Am I? That’s news.” He eyes the ropes as he kicks his pants and shoes off. “Thought you weren’t into the whole BDSM thing?”

“I’m not. But I think you’ll make a pretty picture this way. Lay down. On your back.”

Clint gets on the floor, and Rumlow kneels next to him. He pushes Clint’s leg until it’s completely bent, then starts winding a rope around his ankle and his thigh.

“Have you done this before?” Clint asks, watching with vague interest. He feels kind of syrupy, a little slow, still like he’s sinking into that warm pool. He’s not sure if it’s the drugs or himself—he’s been tied up before, and he’s liked it. Not that he wants to make that connection _now,_ but he can’t help the sense-memory.

Rumlow smirks. “Are you asking me how kinky I am?”

His hand deliberately brushes over Clint’s cock, and Clint jolts a little bit. He hates how good it feels, hate that he already wants more. Hates that his body is betraying him yet again. He _doesn’t fucking want this_ , and he scowls as he says, “No, asshole, I wanna make sure I’m still gonna have limbs by the end of it.”

That earns him a slap on the side of his head. It doesn’t even hurt, it’s just petty, and Clint hates him for it. “What did I tell you about attitude?”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

Rumlow hums quietly. “Cool it,” he orders. “But yes, I’ve done this before. You’ll be fine. If you start having circulation problems, tell me.” He finishes tying off the knot, then moves to the other leg.

Clint eyes the rope on the table and briefly considers strangling him with it. But then he’s being tipped upright, Rumlow’s hands running over his skin. It feels _good,_ and a tiny little groan escapes him, a sound more of pleasure than anything else. He cuts it off hard, but Rumlow’s already grinning at him. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t want it,” Clint says, the words sliding out of him.

“I know,” Rumlow says. Soothingly, sweetly, and he runs his fingers through Clint’s hair, brushing it back out of his eyes. “I know you don’t.”

“So why are you doing it?” Clint whispers.

“Because I want to. Because I can. Because you look good like this.”

“Is this a punishment?”

“Mm. Not so much. Call it a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of where you belong.” The elevator dings, and he looks up. “That’ll be Rollins.”

It is. He swaggers in like he owns the damn place, a six-pack in one hand and a laptop in the other. He surveys the scene in front of him and raises an eyebrow. “The fuck is this gay shit?”

Clint nearly starts laughing, but he manages to keep it in check. Rumlow just sighs. “You ordered dinner,” he says. “Thought I would provide the entertainment.”

“Whatever,” Rollins says, and he drops onto the couch, watching as Rumlow wraps the ropes around Clint’s chest and arms, moving with a quick efficiency that speaks more to experience than his words do.

“You have the cuffs,” Clint says quietly, watching him. He tries to calm his rabbiting heart. “Why bother?”

“It’s about the aesthetics, sweetheart.” He finishes and sits back, satisfied. “Yeah. You look real damn good.”

“Stop admiring your fucking centerpiece,” Rollins says, putting the laptop and beer on the table. But he’s looking too, a hint of interest in his gaze as it lingers on Clint’s chest.

Clint glares back at him. “I don’t want to be here either,” he snarls, but there’s no bite to the words. He pulls at his arms, flexing in the tie, and tries to ignore how much his brain lights up at the feel of rope against his skin. It’s comfortable, at least, other than the cuffs kind of digging into him a little. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to be stuck like this, but he’s pretty sure that physically—for this part at least—he can take it. “I told him—”

“Surprised you haven’t done something about his mouth,” Rollins says lazily, and he leans back, sprawling on the couch. “I know you have gags.” He nudges Rumlow with his foot, a mischievous look in his eye. “Could pull out that—”

“I had other ideas,” Rumlow says, and there’s a silent communication between them, something that Clint doesn’t catch despite looking directly between the two of them. He doesn’t like it, though. Doesn’t like the cruel twist to Rumlow’s mouth, or the way Rollins suddenly grins.

“You’re done,” Rumlow says to Clint, and moves to sit on the couch next to Rollins. He reaches over and grabs the six pack, pops out one of the beers and opens it.

There’s a moment where they all just kind of look at each other, and Clint suddenly realizes how this must look—him naked and tied up, the two of them still clothed and sitting on the couch like it’s a throne. He knows it’s a power move, because everything Rumlow does is a fucking power move, but recognizing it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“So now what,” he says, and Rumlow blinks, like he’s been pulled out of his thoughts. “We sit and stare at each other all night? Play party games? If you’d tied my hands in front we could’ve—”

He cuts off with a grunt as Rollins reaches forward and grabs his hair, dragging him forward. He awkwardly shuffles with it, not really having any other choice, and ends up directly in front of the man. It’s pretty clear where this is going, but Clint raises an eyebrow anyway. “This just to satisfy your egomaniac side, or—”

Rollins pulls his head back sharply. “That fuckin’ mouth,” he says, and looks at Rumlow. Another silent look passes between them, and then Rumlow makes a _go ahead_ gesture. “Let’s do something useful with it, why don’t we?” He presses his thumb against Clint’s lower lip, pulling down on it gently before sliding in. “You bite me, you’re gonna fuckin’ regret it.”

Clint seriously considers biting him, but the moment Rollins’ thumb slips into his mouth, a little haze slips over his mind. It’s like a switch is flipped in his head, that low level of arousal suddenly more relevant, pushed to the front of his mind. He shivers, forcibly stopping himself from sucking on Rollins’ thumb. _You don’t want this. You’ve never wanted this._

And he still doesn’t, is the thing. He doesn’t want it. But that doesn’t seem to matter to his body. He’s already getting hard, just from this, and he suspects that this is only the beginning—

“You like this,” Rollins says. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Clint mumbles around his thumb.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“He’s not,” Rumlow says. “He doesn’t like it.” There’s a wolfish grin on his face, and he’s watching things unfold with an intensity that Clint’s come to expect from him. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? Not right now.” He leans forward and nudges Clint with his foot. “You don’t like it, but you _want_ it. And you hate that.”

It’s true. It’s all true, every word, and all Clint can do is glare hotly at him. The worst part is, he fucking did this to himself. Whether or not he had a choice in the matter, he still did it to himself.

He almost wonders if it would’ve been better to pick option B. At least in the basement cell he could’ve told himself he’d fought and tried, and did his best. This—

This feels like giving up. Like giving in. Like picking the easy option. And he _hates_ it, because he knows that between the two, he would’ve picked this every single time.

“Sweetheart,” Rumlow says softly, and Clint looks over at him. The motion dislodges Rollins’ thumb, and he suddenly realizes how fast he’s breathing, how hard his heart is pounding against the ropes around his chest. Some of it’s the drug, he’s sure, but some of it’s the panic about what’s going to happen. There’s a general pattern to Rumlow—he gets mouthy, he gets handsy, they banter some, and then there’s sex. Even in the basement there’s a pattern of behaviors he can rely on. But this—this is new. He’s never been with Rollins before, he doesn’t know what the guy is like—

“Breathe,” Rumlow orders, and Clint sucks in a breath he didn’t know he needed. “That’s a good boy.”

Rollins comes back—Clint must have zoned out for a moment, he doesn’t even remember him getting up—and drops a pizza box on the table. “Is he gonna freak out the whole time?”

“He’s fine,” Rumlow says, patting Clint’s head. “He just needs to be touched. The labs said skin-to-skin was good.”

Clint wants to deny it, but it’s true. Something’s settled in him the moment Rumlow touched him, and as much as he doesn’t want to, he’s leaning into it.

“Pussy,” Rollins says. “If he sucks my dick, is that enough _touching_?”

Clint glares back at him. “I don’t fucking like it either,” he snaps. “Blame your boyfriend, he fucking drugged me—“

“You drugged yourself,” Rumlow says, “I gave you a choice.”

“That wasn’t a choice—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Rollins growls. He grabs Clint and pulls him forward again, other hand tugging himself out of his pants. “You talk so goddamn much.” With another awkward shuffle, he pulls Clint forward more, then shoves him down onto his dick.

Clint chokes with the unexpectedness of it, but just like with Rollins’ thumb, that little golden haze descends over his mind again. He pulls back enough to catch a breath, flicking his eyes up to Rollins in a way he hopes can convey how pissed off he is.

“Go on, then,” Rollins says. “Put that mouth to better use.”

There’s a moment where Clint thinks about biting him, but then his fingers curl tighter in Clint’s hair, and the edge of pain-pleasure overrides everything else for a moment. He whines high in his throat, and feels more than hears the chuckle he gets in response. “That’s it,” Rollins says encouragingly, and he does it again. “Suck it, Barton.”

Clint does. He doesn’t _want_ to make it good, but it’s like his brain won’t let him do anything else. He feels like a passenger in his own damn body, like this stupid fucking drug is driving things and all he can do is go where it directs him. He’s still getting hard from it, too, from the weight and feeling of a cock on his tongue, and _fuck_ he hates himself. He’s so fucking weak.

“God _damn,_ ” Rollins growls.

“I know.” Rumlow sounds smug. “Wasting his talents, really. This is what he’s good at.”

Rollins tightens his grip and tugs Clint off him. There’s a line of spit from his dick to Clint’s mouth, and Clint flushes at how debauched he must look right now. “This is all he’s good at,” is all Rollins says, and then he pushes Clint back onto his dick.

 _Is not,_ Clint thinks, but for the life of him, he can’t think of anything to refute it. So he keeps his snarky remarks to himself and keeps going. Maybe if he can make Rollins come, then he can do this to Rumlow—god knows he knows the tricks to get him off—and then this will all be over. A couple blowjobs and some ropes are a small price to pay for his dignity, really.

But instead, Rollins pulls him off again. “I want to fuck him,” he says to Rumlow.

 _No,_ Clint says. Or tries to say. But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Please _.”_

Dead silence falls.

They all stare at each other for a minute. Then Rumlow grins like the fucking Cheshire Cat, and he leans forward, cupping his hand around Clint’s chin. “What was that, sweetheart?”

“I— ” Clint shakes his head, eyes wide as he looks at Rumlow. “I didn’t—I don’t—”

_You don’t like it, but you want it._

Rollins chuckles, drawing Clint’s attention back to him. “Oh,” he says, leaning forward. “This is interesting.”

“I don’t want it,” Clint says, but he _does,_ and he isn’t sure how to reconcile the two things in his head. “I—don’t, please—“

“It’s okay,” Rumlow soothes. “We know you don’t.”

 _But we’re not going to do anything about it,_ is the silent add-on, and they all know that too, and Clint’s not sure why it hurts as much as it does.

“Just get it over with,” he says, looking down at the floor. “Just—just fuckin’ do it.”

They share another look, the two of them, and Clint has the sinking feeling that it’s not going to be over anytime soon.

“What’re the parameters?” Rollins asks.

Rumlow is still looking at Clint like he wants to eat him alive. “Nothing permanent.”

“That’s all?”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Rollins grins, lazily stroking his dick. “That’s _all?_ ”

“Or just don’t do anything?” Clint suggests, and Rumlow slaps him hard enough to turn his head.

“Watch the attitude,” he says, “or all bets are off, and you won’t like that.”

 _Don’t like it now,_ Clint thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut, his sense of self-preservation rearing its head for once.

Rollins is studying him, and Clint emphatically does not like the look in his eye, or the way his possessive way his fingers are trailing over the ropes crossed over Clint’s chest. It’s eerily similar to the way Rumlow touches him, and Clint shudders under his fingertips. He doesn’t like it, he’s already letting Rumlow carve him away piece by piece, he doesn’t even know if there’s anything _left_ for Rollins to take—

“I don’t think so,” Rollins says, and Clint blinks, realizing he’d missed something Rumlow had said. _Stay present, Hawkeye. You can’t zone out for this. Not now._

Rollins runs a hand through Clint’s hair. It’s gentle, in a way that makes Clint’s skin crawl. “Should’ve done this at my place,” he says. “I’ve got better equipment.”

“We can’t all have sex dungeons in our apartments,” Rumlow says, sipping his beer. “I’ve got stuff if you want.”

“Not like I do.”

Rumlow grins. “Nobody has shit like you do.” He looks at Clint. “But I might take you up on that some day. Bet he’d look real good on that cross thing you’ve got.”

“Mm.” He hooks a finger in one of the ropes, tugs Clint forward a little bit. “Well. We can have fun anyway.” He tugs again. “What did you give him, huh?”

“Aphrodisiac,” Rumlow says. “And some other things. He’s good to play for a while.”

“Nice.” He tugs again. Clint’s inches from his dick now. Clint can’t take his eyes off it, can’t stop himself from licking his lips. He _wants_ it, wants it back in his mouth, wants to taste it—

“Oh, tiger,” Rumlow murmurs, faux-sympathetic. “You need it bad, don’t you?”

“Please,” Clint whispers again, and he doesn’t know if the next word is _stop_ or _more._

Rollins laughs. It’s cold, and cruel, and Clint hates it. “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing to his dick. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

Clint leans forward, dragging his tongue up the length. Rollins lets out a long breath, tipping his head back. “Fuck,” he breathes, and slides his hand down, questing fingers finding a nipple. He rolls it between his fingers, then twists it. Clint makes a high-pitched noise, arms pulling against the ropes.

“It’s okay,” Rumlow whispers, sliding off the couch. He moves behind Clint, slides a soothing hand over his shoulders. “You’re doing so _good._ ”

The praise lights up Clint’s brain like a goddamn fireworks show. He can’t help the moan that slides out, or the way his eyes flutter closed, or the way he leans into Rumlow’s touch, moving backwards enough that Rollins almost slides out of his mouth.

“You’re distracting him,” Rollins says, but he sounds more amused than anything.

“Nah.” Rumlow rests his chin on Clint’s shoulder and slips a hand down to wrap around his cock. “That was being nice. _This_ is distracting.” And he rubs his thumb around the head, chuckling quietly as Clint jolts forward into his hand. “There you go, sweetheart. You can enjoy this. It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. It’s so far removed from okay that it’s not even on the same fucking continent. But Clint doesn’t know what he can _do_ about it, except sit here and take it.

Well—that’s not entirely true. He could _participate._ But he already has trouble meeting his reflection in the mirror. He’s not going to willingly offer up his own enthusiasm. Not this time. He’ll let the drug do the talking for him, and he’ll sort himself out later. Bare minimum.

So he doesn’t protest, when Rumlow starts jerking him off. He just focuses on what he’s supposed to be doing, pulling out all the tricks he knows. He just needs to get Rollins off, and then Rumlow, and then it’s over. That’s all.

“You’re doing so good,” Rumlow whispers. “I like you here, like this. This is where you belong.”

Clint ignores him. Closes his eyes, tries to pretend he’s somewhere else. He’s _done_ this, before, with people he liked. People he trusted. He tries to put himself back there, remember the feeling of feeling safe and warm and secure—

“Fuck,” Rollins growls, and the image shatters around him. Clint squeezes his eyes shut more, fights back the tears that threaten to fall. _This is where you are,_ he thinks, fingers curling into fists as Rumlow keeps working him, pushing him closer to the edge. _This is what you get. Deal with it._

Rollins grunts, the only warning Clint gets before he drags Clint forward, coming down his throat. Clint’s half-ready for it, at least, managing to not choke too much as Rollins holds him in place.

He pulls back with a wet cough, glaring up at Rollins. “Rude,” he manages between breaths.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Rollins says, lazing back onto the couch. “I can see why you keep him around.”

Rumlow pats Clint’s hip as he sits back, pulling his hand away. “Right?”

Clint tries not to whine at the loss of contact, but he doesn’t quite make it, a little noise escaping through his clenched teeth. Rollins smirks as he reaches forward, collecting a stray drop of come from Clint’s lip and pushing it into his mouth. “You did good,” he says, voice dark, and Clint just nods, soaking up the praise like it’s sunlight.

 _You don’t want it,_ he tells himself again, but the words still ring hollow when his brain and body aren’t on the same wavelength.

He looks down at his own dick, hard and leaking, and wonders if once is even going to be enough. He feels wired for touch, still leaning back into Rumlow. _A couple hours_ , Rumlow had said, and there’s a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he’s going to be hard and desperate for most of it.

“You still wanna fuck him?” Rumlow asks, one hand coming up to squeeze the back of his neck.

Rollins snorts. “You’re gonna have to give it a minute.” But he’s looking over Clint’s shoulder, past the two of them. “You still got that big bed?”

“Of course.”

“Get him in there.” He tugs the ropes. “Take this off. He’s gonna need his hands. I’ll do it.”

Rumlow laughs. “That gay shit, huh?”

“Fuck off, Brock.” He should look ridiculous as he stands, dick still hanging out of his pants, but he just looks _hot,_ and Clint loses himself in a little wave of desire. He manages to pull himself back from the edge, twisting to look at Rumlow.

“Easy,” Rumlow murmurs, undoing the knots around his legs. “You’ve been kneeling a long time, don’t try to get up right away.”

Clint shakes his head, watching Rollins walk into the bedroom. “I don’t—“

“Don’t tell me you don’t want it,” Rumlow says. “I know you don’t. It’s not going to change anything. All you’re doing is working yourself up.” He tugs the knots free, reaches for the other side. “Why don’t you just relax, sweetheart? Why don’t you just go with it?”

“I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can.” Rumlow grabs his arm, helps him move to sit on the couch. Clint winces as he stretches out his legs. “You can. It’s all in your head, Barton. Just let go. Just _feel_ it.”

“Why?” Clint stands as Rumlow pulls him up, legs wobbly. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to be nice to you.”

“You said this was a punishment.”

“No, I said it was putting you in your place.” He keeps a steady hand on Clint as he leads him into the bedroom. “And you’re doing so well, sweetheart. Stop holding onto to whatever you’re clinging to, and just let it happen. You can’t change it. You might as well enjoy it.”

“I don’t want to.”

Rumlow sighs. “Just trying to help,” he says, and pushes Clint towards Rollins. “He’s all yours.”

Rollins catches him easily, fingers already picking at the harness. “I said take this off.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rumlow’s palming himself over his pants, watching them with bright eyes. “I like watching you do it.”

“Gay shit,” Rollins tells him again, but there’s a fond tone to his words. He unties it, lets Clint shake his arms out, and then pulls his arms in front, looping the ropes around his wrists and wrapping up his forearms. Clint watches, almost fascinated by the way he does it. His fingers move with practiced ease, moving the ropes in a way that’s almost familiar.

“Did you teach Rumlow?” he suddenly asks, and Rollins grins, but doesn’t answer. He just nudges Clint over to the bed.

“Clothes off,” he orders Rumlow, and Rumlow strips with an efficiency bordering on enthusiasm. “Sit on the bed. Up by the headboard.” To Clint, he says, “You’re gonna go suck his dick now. Make it good.”

Clint awkwardly crawls on the bed after Rumlow. It’s familiar, at least, this position. He’s not normally tied like this, but there’s a part of him that likes the way the ropes bite into his skin. He arranges himself between Rumlow’s legs and gets right to it, not bothering with asking. Rumlow jolts a little bit, but then his head falls back against the wall, hand coming up to wind into Clint’s hair. It’s sore from Rollins grabbing at it, and he winces, making a pained noise.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Rumlow murmurs, but he lets go, fingers moving to brush around Clint’s throat instead. “Should put a collar on you.”

“That’d be a good look,” Rollins says, and there’s a heat in his voice that Clint does not want to think about right now. He jumps as Rollins’ hand palms over his ass, tries to regain his balance as the bed dips behind him. He ends up spreading his legs a little wider, and his face flushes as Rollins chuckles. “Eager for it, aren’t we?” He tosses a rope towards Rumlow. “Go ahead.”

Clint blinks in confusion, body thrumming with arousal as Rumlow takes the rope. “What,” he starts, and then Rumlow’s wrapping it around his neck.

He immediately pulls backwards with an almost frantic, “No!” But there’s nowhere for him to go, with Rollins behind him and Rumlow in front, and all he can do is helplessly shake his head. “No, _please_ —”

“Hey,” Rumlow says soothingly. “I know what I’m doing, Barton. I promise.” He grins. “You’re right, Rollins taught me. I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s just aesthetics.” He tugs Clint back into place, starts working the rope. “You look real pretty like this, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t choke him. It’s not even that tight, but it still doesn’t stop the panic as Rumlow tosses the other end of the rope to Rollins. “Take it off,” he whispers, but Rumlow just shakes his head and rubs a hand through Clint’s hair. Then he hooks his finger under the collar and tugs him forward, back towards his dick.

“Get to work,” he says, and Clint does, almost frantic in his motions. He just wants it over with, just wants it to be done so he can go to sleep and figure out how to hate himself in the morning. To that end, he sucks Rumlow a little harder, swirling his tongue around—

“Easy,” Rumlow says, pulling him up. “Take it slow, sweetheart, we got all night.”

“I’m not sucking your dick all night,” Clint says, going up with the pressure. He expects to be hit, but Rumlow just chuckles and pats his cheek.

“Not what I meant,” he says, and Clint would argue with him more, but then Rollins is suddenly spreading him open, and his tongue is dragging across Clint’s hole. Clint _yells,_ jolting forward, and Rollins pulls him back with the leash.

It feels _good._ It feels better than good, really, it feels fucking amazing. His cock is leaking onto the bedspread, and he can’t stop himself from moaning, can’t stop himself from pushing back onto Rollins. He drops his head down, vaguely aware of Rumlow’s cock brushing his cheek. “Fuck— _fuck—“_

“Oh, he likes that,” Rumlow says with a grin in his voice. “Figured he’d be a slut for that move.”

“Not,” Clint starts, but then Rollins is slipping a finger into him, and he trails off in another moan, shoving his face further down into his bound arms.

“It’s okay,” Rumlow says, patting his hair. “I told you, it’s alright. Just let yourself feel.”

Clint shakes his head. He doesn’t _want_ to feel it, he doesn’t want it, he just wants this to be over with. But he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. His whole body is desperate with the need to come, desire burning through him. His fingers clench spasmodically in the sheets, and he’s shivering, rocking back into Rollins with every thrust of his finger. He’s going to come from this, he can already tell, and the shame is almost as overwhelming as the rest of it.

“It’s okay,” Rumlow says, because he _knows,_ the bastard, knows exactly what Clint sounds like when he’s about to come, and he’s fucking delighted about it. “I know, he’s real good. Come for us, sweetheart. Nice and loud, you know what I like.”

Clint does, but he’s not going to play along. Not for this. He doesn’t make a damn sound as he comes, other than a quiet, muffled groan. Sparks fly behind his eyelids, and he shudders, nearly tipping over, but he doesn’t yell like Rumlow wants, and the victory of it is enough to satisfy him for a moment.

“Stubborn bastard,” Rumlow says, almost fond-sounding as Rollins finally moves back from Clint’s ass. “Alright. We’ll get it next time.”

“Next time?” Clint manages, picking his head up, trying to remember what words are. “I—what?”

“Oh, Barton,” Rumlow murmurs, a gentle hand to the side of his face. “Did you think we were done?”

Clint blinks at him, confused. “But,” he starts, twisting to look back at Rollins, who’s off the bed and digging around in the nightstand. He’s still fully dressed, even, and somewhere in the back of his mind Clint knows that’s another power move thing. _I’ve got the most clothes on, so clearly I’m in charge._

He shakes his head. “I’m—I’m done—”

“You’re not,” Rumlow says firmly, and he moves his foot, nudging it against Clint’s cock. “Look at that. You’re still hard.”

“I don’t _want_ it—“

“Christ, this shit again?” Rollins asks, getting back on the bed behind him. He slaps Clint on the ass, making him jump. “Either gag him or put him to work, Rumlow, I don’t wanna hear his fucking whining. I don’t give a damn what he wants.”

“C’mere,” Rumlow says, and he pulls Clint back onto his dick again. “There you go, that’s it.”

Clint doesn’t want this either, but he does it anyway. Familiar territory, as shitty as it is, and he clings to that even as he catches the slick sound of lube behind him. He’s still wet and open from before, and it’s just a matter of moments before Rollins is sliding in, a slow, steady push that makes Clint grunt with the stretch of it.

“Fuck,” Rollins says, hips resting against his ass. “Still tight.”

Clint shudders and tries to think about what he’s doing, even as Rollins sets up a steady pace. Not fucking him into the mattress, but not gentle, either, nudging into his prostate with a purpose. Already turned on, Clint can feel the arousal pooling in his gut, and he can’t hold back the muffled _ah-ah_ ’s that fall out of him every time Rollins hits the right spot. His dick, sensitive still from the last orgasm, is already hardening again.

He vaguely remembers Steve talking about something like this—not that he’d said it outright, but there’d been something along the lines of ‘super-soldier refractory periods being kind of a bitch.’ Clint had teased him about his language at the time, but honestly, he’s got a fucking point. Clint—and more specifically his dick—absolutely does not want to be part of the party at all. It’s almost painful, balancing precariously on the thin line between _feeling good_ and _oh fuck it hurts._

He’s done this before—not with drugs involved, but the whole oversensitivity thing. He normally likes pushing his limits, likes seeing how much he can take. But that’s with things like a safe word and established boundaries and condoms and people he actually _trusts_ —

He doesn’t realize he’s whining high in his throat until Rollins slaps him hard enough to pull out an actual yell out of him. “Cut that shit out,” he orders, fucking him harder. “Christ, you’re annoying.”

“I like it,” Rumlow says. “You know how much effort I gotta put in to get noise out of him? Leave him alone, I want to hear it.” He puts a hand on the back of Clint’s head and holds him in place, fucks up into his mouth and makes him choke. “That too. I like that.”

Clint swallows around him, doing his best to keep himself together. He just needs to make them come. Both of them, probably. Actually—all three. If they all come, then this will be _over,_ and he can sleep. He’s sore, and he’s tired, and his shoulders fucking hurt from being in this position. He just wants to be done.

He moves his hands—which is awkward with them bound, but he makes it work—and plays with Rumlow’s balls while he sucks his dick, pulling out every trick he knows to make him come faster. He’s not sure what Rollins’ buttons are, but this, at least, he can handle. _Just get it over with. It’ll be fine. It’s just a mission._

Rumlow grunts, his tell-tale sign, and Clint swallows around him as he comes, doing his best to get all of it. He licks up whatever he doesn’t get, weeks and months of instructions just engrained in his head at this point. It barely even registers with him anymore.

Rollins keeps fucking into him, almost too brutal, but still managing to nail Clint’s oversensitive prostate on every thrust. It helps, at least, this orgasm a little longer in coming— _stop making stupid puns, Clint_ —and the continual shock of it finally tips him over the edge. He doesn’t make a noise this time either, and the annoyed look on Rumlow’s face is entirely worth the effort it takes to stay silent.

It only takes a few moments for Rollins to come, spilling into him with his own groan of pleasure. He rides it out with a few lazy thrusts, then pulls out and shoves Clint over to the other side of the bed. Clint goes easily, toppling onto the covers as he tries to remember how to breathe. His whole body is pleasantly tingling, warm aftershocks running up and down his spine, and he flexes in the ties just to feel them against his skin.

“Fuck,” Rollins says, and pats Rumlow’s leg. “He’s almost as good as you.”

Rumlow grins. “Aw, Jack. You’re sweet.”

“Shut the fuck up, Brock.” He gets up and goes into the bathroom. Clint distantly hears running water, and wishes he could be in there. Wishes he could scrub off all of their touches, get the taste of come out of his mouth, curl up in the blankets and hibernate for the rest of eternity.

“How you feeling?” Rumlow asks, nudging Clint.

Clint tilts his head slightly. “Like I want to kill you.”

“So, baseline?”

He lets out a hollow laugh. It’s gallows humor, at this point, but he laughs anyway. “Yeah,” he mutters, and rolls onto his back a little more.

“You still feeling it, huh?”

“I thought you said it would wear off.”

“It will, eventually.”

“But you said a few hours—”

Rumlow shrugs. “I guessed.” He gestures at Clint’s dick, which is still frustratingly hard, despite coming for a second time. “You want some help with that?”

God, he does. He wants to be touched, like Rumlow said. Wants to be tied down _to_ something instead of just himself, stretched out and helpless and—

 _No, you don’t,_ he tries to tell himself, and half-wants to cry at the thought. “Can you just untie me?” he asks, trying not to sound as pathetic as he feels. “Please?”

“Shhh,” Rumlow says, and puts a hand on his head, gently carding through his hair. Clint leans into it, and wonders just how much more he can hate himself. “I just want to take care of you, sweetheart. That’s all.”

 _I want to watch you break,_ is the translation of that, and Clint closes his eyes, quietly seething against the inevitability of it all. It doesn’t matter what the fuck he does, he always seems to end up back here, naked and at Rumlow’s mercy. He’s so fucking sick of it.

“Just get it over with,” he mumbles, forcing himself to look at Rumlow. “Just—just do it.”

Rollins comes back out. “Is he still whining?”

“Be nice to him,” Rumlow says, and it would sound affectionate if not for the amused, condescending note in his voice. “He’s being a good boy.”

“Mm.” Rollins crosses his arms. “We got shit to do, Rumlow.”

“I know.” Rumlow stretches, then pats Clint’s shoulder. “Alright, Barton. You can come with. I want something nice to look at. We’ll circle back around to you.”

“You trust him to be around for this?” Rollins raises an eyebrow. “Thought I trained you better than that.”

Rumlow grins. “He can have all the information he wants, Rollins. The fuck is he gonna do with it?” He looks down at Clint. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

It is. Rumlow could hand him the keys to the kingdom, and there’s not a damn thing he could do about it. Not when his friends are being leveraged against him, not when he’s wearing trackers around his wrists, not when a single step out of line is going to bring nothing but pain for him.

Rumlow nudges him. “I asked you a question.”

“Yeah,” Clint says quietly. “It’s true.” He stares straight ahead at the wall, unable to meet their eyes. Not that he needs to—he can imagine the cruel triumph well enough on his own.

“Whatever,” Rollins says, and heads towards the door. “Bring your toy. If he keeps whining, I’m gonna gag him.”

“He’ll be good,” Rumlow promises, and gets to his feet. There’s a rustle of clothes as he re-dresses, and then he’s sliding his hand along Clint’s body again, chuckling as Clint whimpers softly, arching into it. “Won’t you? You’ll be _so_ good.”

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, and drops his eyes back down. “I can be good.”

“That’s my boy.” Rumlow tugs on the rope around his neck, forcing him to sit up. Then he tugs it again, a cold delight in his eyes as Clint chokes a little. “Come on, tiger. We got some shit to do.”

And Clint, helpless to do anything else, follows him out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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